


To Die, To Sleep

by ComposingJohnlock



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Albeit an annoying one sometimes, Drug Use, Other, Wilson is a good friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 04:10:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComposingJohnlock/pseuds/ComposingJohnlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vicodin can be nasty stuff. Luckily House has Wilson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Die, To Sleep

The bottle of pills stared at him hungrily. White, fluorescent light shone off its smooth plastic surface and right into his trembling blue irises. He blinked and swallowed, trying to tear his eyes away for just one second ...and was met with very real, very physical pain.

Before he knew what he was doing, two were resting on his tongue. He could spit them out, he mused for a second, before swallowing them both. But he couldn't. He never could. 

The Vicodin slid uncomfortably down his throat and he shifted in his seat, hoping they would go into effect soon. The dull, throbbing, constant reminder of his weakness never ceased in his thigh. And it wasn't any better now. 

Some time passed. He tapped the seconds out on the spotless linoleum with his cane. Tap tap tap.  
The clicking of high heels approached him. Tap tap.

"House," the voice said, patronizingly. "You've been sitting there for hours, you know." He grunted but the voice continued. "Your patient went into cardiac arrest -- he's stable now, but--" 

"Go away," he muttered, slumping further against the wall. His head turned sharply to the side to illustrate his words. The voice, he knew now belonged to his boss, said something, but he didn't quite catch it. It wasn't the drugs, he was just tuning her out.

"House. You can't just ignore your patient like this. Get up. I'll let you do the biopsy you wanted, but you can't sit there all day and expect..."   
The voice again. It kept talking, droning, but he was pretty damn determined not to listen.  "...in trouble! Are you even listening to me?" 

 There was the sensation of a hand on his shoulder. Her hand. In a flash of irritation he shook it off, promptly turning to press his forehead firmly into the wall. A few moments later there was a muffled sigh and the shoes clicked away. And he sat in unmoving, hazy victory. 

\---

Some time much later, he realized he must have fallen asleep, because when he dragged his eyes open, there was a man kneeling in front of him, his face a mask of disapproval. The man was also checking his pupils and his pulse. He tugged his wrist away. 

"What are you doing, Wilson?" he croaked irritably. 

Wilson just took his wrist again. "You're going home. Come on," he said eventually, and wrapped his arm under House's. He helped (or, rather, lifted) him up. His leg protested. They began to shuffle down the halls when House spoke again. 

"Vicodin." The pills were still sitting back on the bench. Wilson sighed, turned them around, and retrieved the now half-empty bottle for him. House reached for them but Wilson stuffed them in his own pocket and nudged him forward a bit. 

"I'll give them back to you when you're not delirious, House," he said in a final way. House opened his mouth for some kind of sharp retort, but bit it back to fight the bile that immediately rose in his throat. 

\---

"I hate you, Wilson." House snatched for the man's jacket pocket, but Wilson jerked away, frowning. The rest of the people in the elevator focused on averting their eyes. 

 

\---

 

"Please. I haven't taken any in a few hours. Just one. Please?" 

Wilson rolled his eyes. "You were that close to overdosing today. Do you not understand that you have limits? Just like everyone else?" As he spoke, his fingers tightened on the driving wheel. They turned a sharp corner, sending a wave of grimy water onto the sidewalk.  
 It was raining outside. The droplets on the windshield reflected the bright, neon light from the "Open" signs on store windows. House watched them change from bright red to green mutely, then let out a pathetic sigh and tugged absently, at the constricting seatbelt. 

\---

 

Finally, they started up the steps of their apartment building, the somewhat-coherent man having to lean heavily against his friend (and at occasion, frienemy. Like now, for instance).   
They passed two pigeons that were sitting on the concrete and House was very tempted to kick at them (but didn't, lest he collapse entirely). 

When they got inside, House was dumped ungraciously on the couch. His cane was set down next to him. Wilson went into the kitchen to "relocate" his stash of Vicodin. It was only stash #6, but his friend didn't need to know about that. 

Much to his chagrin, Wilson didn't leave after that. He sat on the couch opposite House as he lay flat on the cushions, his fingers twitching in some random pattern. Both his head and his leg were throbbing incessantly now. "Go home. It's late," he snapped suddenly after an hour or so had passed, and the throbbing was verging on screaming pain. 

"I've recieved orders from the boss-lady. I'm supposed to watch you."   
But Wilson was tired, House could hear it in his voice. He could outwait him. He forced himself to stop trembling and fix his eyes firmly on the ceiling. 

Thirty four minutes later, Wilson looked completely relaxed and his breathing was slow. He didn't stir when his name was called either. Breathing a sigh of relief, the doctor whipped out the softly gleaming pill bottle that he'd nicked from Wilson when they climbed the steps, and very nearly ripped the cap off.

He downed four pills and let his hand drop, breathing deeply. After a few minutes, his pain ebbed away and he dropped into another exhausted, dreamless sleep. It could hardly be called relief, it was always so temporary. Sleep. 

But then, there was never too long a respite from the pain. 

Because when his eyes forced themselves open again, it was some ungodly hour of the night.  He was trembling again, sweating, feeling burning hot and freezing cold at the same time and the pain was there as it always was. House shuddered, shifted his head and stared at the innocent, reflective little orange bottle beside him. 

And it looked absolutely starving.


End file.
